


Poems

by ASockAndEt



Category: Original Work
Genre: Poems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29235195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASockAndEt/pseuds/ASockAndEt
Summary: A collection of poems that are usually existentialist and sad
Kudos: 1





	1. On The Train Ride There

This is what I think on the train ride there

that I am leaving what I knew far behind.

That I am heading towards something new.

Will it take the shape of my hopes?

But I wonder if it isn't better to toss away these scraps

Scraps built up over these twenty years

Scraps hard-earned and picked off a dirty floor

A floor wet with tears, blood, and sweat

This is what I think on the train ride there

that it will be an awfully long journey before I'm there.

What new people will I meet?

What new sights will I see?

And I wonder how much more my heart can beat?

But I wonder if it's better to keep my daydreams muted.

Daydreams built up over these twenty years,

of sights I long to see,

of people I hope to meet,

of dreams built in the past 7300 days.

Can they really sustain me?

This is what I think on the train ride there.

Maybe I will never arrive?

Maybe it will suddenly end one day?

This journey that I finally decided to take twenty years later.

Is it still possible to arrive?

Broken down as I am?

Hopeless, dreamless, and empty?

I wonder if it's too late to begin or stop?

This is what I thought on the train ride there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write poems based off phrases in my head and then I just riff. Although this seems like a sad poem, I would recommend rereading the last line. 
> 
> I think the meaning of this poem is straightforward. 
> 
> When you make goals, are you certain you want to achieve them? When you push forward to achieve them, are you certain they will make you happy? When you invent hopes and daydreams and the future, aren't you scared of disappointing yourself? Is it better to dream bigger or smaller?
> 
> I'm not sure but if you live long enough, something will happen.


	2. Crumpling Paper

I just wanna tear out a page from a notebook

Crumple it up on the spot

Crumple it and crumple it and crumple it

Into a small, crumpled up ball

Throw it on the floor and set it on fire

When it crumples into a pile of ashes,

I wanna step on it.

Step on it and step on it and step on it

Let it blow away with the breeze

I wanna tear myself apart

Crumple myself on the spot

Crumple myself and crumple myself and crumple myself

Into a small, crumpled up ball

Throw myself on the floor and set myself on fire

When I crumple into a pile of ashes,

I wanna take a hike.

Take a hike and take a hike and take a hike

Let me take a hike with the breeze


	3. On a Train Far Away

On a train far away,

the sun becomes the moon

and the clouds seem to disappear for a moment

Look up at the stars above,

our wishes,

look how they all sparkle,

sparkle out of reach

ah, one by one, they all burn out

Sitting on this train

that takes us far, far away,

I still think that

to be without wishes, dreams, and hopes

is to be less-than-human,

less than "normal,"

less than everyone else

But sitting next to you,

I wonder-hey, is it true you don't know what to do?

Me either

Let's search for a purpose together

Purposeless,

yet purposeful beings

Our existence is almost less-than-human

but we remain human all the same

For as long as we live,

for as long as this train remains

may our stars light up again

On a train far away,

the moon becomes the sun

and the clouds cover the sky once more


	4. Dream and Reality

Is this dream or reality?

The blue of the sky,

the stars at night,

and the clouds that drift by

They've never seemed so vivid,

so beautiful,

so real,

except in my dreams

It seems even the rushing breeze

or the cold spray of the ocean

can't wake me up

Is this dream or reality?

I'm not sure

What might happen next,

the events of the past,

and this moment right now

None of it feels futile,

empty,

or sad,

the way it always feels in reality

The soft piano playing at night,

the popcorn pattern on my ceiling,

none of it is lulling me to sleep tonight

Is this dream or reality?

Has my reality finally been consumed by dreams,

or have all my dreams come true?

Can I trust what my eyes see and my ears hear?

Can I believe in what my fingers touch and my heart feels?

For my dreams to become reality,

For my reality to become nothing but dreams,

There is no difference, is there?


	5. Human

[real title is:  
 ~~What Is~~ ~~How Do I Be~~ ~~Am I~~ Human ~~?~~

\------------------------------------------

What is it like to be human?

(I start the questioning again, moving pencil over paper. The computer screen on my right, I ignore. But the flashing | is hard to ignore at the end of an incomplete sentence. This is just an escape but maybe this time it will end differently.)

Some people call themselves stars

and it's true that the stars at night

shine just as beautiful and bright

But they don't seem very human to me

("Metaphors don't work for a reason," I write. "This is a terrible reason to write about metaphors."

The stars tonight are very pretty though.)

And some human voices are described like violins

(here you go again but there is some musical history behind this

alright, go ahead, let's hear your stupid wondering)

Sonorous and deep, haunting and pretty

That might all be true...

but I won't be able to understand them anyways

(oh, you had a different point.)

(An owl hoots outside, distracting me from distraction. The lamp flickers on my left- Is that a problem I need to fix...?)

I wonder what it is like to be human

I don't feel much like one

I have a human body and I have five fingers on my hands

Yes, to everyone who meets me,

I surely look human

But looks do not always match the insides

Can we even call it a soul?

Then what makes a soul human?

(congratulations. you've come across yet another topic of distraction.

what does it matter in the end?)

If a human can be a star, if a voice can be a violin,

yet not be any of those things at all,

then I can still call myself something, can't I?

(i hope you've got a label all set, waiting in the wings

oh yes, a label would just make you so happy,

wouldn't it?)

I feel like a writer

(do you?)

I feel most when I write

(how about now?)

Writing is like a band-aid

(on a severed arm, sure)

and it can be a knife too

...you're not commenting on that?

...

Are all writers human?

Therefore, am I human?

("What meaning is there in being human?" I write. "What meaning is there in not being?" Do I write "human" at the end of that sentence? I don't for now. The stars will be disappearing soon; the owl's gone away.)

Words, thoughts, feelings like these

seem to be like a human's

but what else could I compare them to?

Surely, I must be human

It is easiest if I call myself human

(yeah, so just give up)

Where does the disconnect come from?

Why do I wonder what it is like to be human?

Maybe it is only a writer's nature

or maybe I was pretending to be human all this time

~~What is it like to be-~~

(I backspace.)

~~How do I be-~~

(I delete.)

Am I-

(I don't finish the question. I stare at a pointless beginning. I can only think to myself, "What terrible ways to start a new stanza." With a pink dusting the horizon, I think-)

Does it matter.

(it doesn't)

What is identity.

(merriam-webster: distinguishing character or personality of an individual)

I will never be anyone else but myself anyways.

Who am I.

What distinguishes me from you.

(are you talking to me?)

And what separates a human from an animal?

(are you ignoring me?!)

("What I am thinking about is the meaning of life," I write. "An animal does not care about meaning and obviously I do. But of course, here we are again, the topic to be distracted from.")

But another second, just one more

In that sense,

monsters can be human too

(monsters are monsters; you just find any way to fall into the drain.

and just wait, you'll try to redeem monsters too.

too kind now, too kind, aren't you?)

Because so many monsters have to be more than their appearance or their diet...

just like humans struggle to be more

(and of course, you say next-)

Maybe I am a monster.

(okay then, monster, what kind of monster are you? What's your appearance like? What's your diet?)

...

(and? what's your meaning of life?)

...

(you're not a monster. and you're not a human.

it's all pointless.)

...to write.

(stupid.)

...all I can do is write.

(give up.)

You're right.

It is pointless.

To write, to act out a purpose, to live at all.

(i didn't say that)

Why do you care about what was said and what wasn't?

It's all thoughts that waste time,

time that could be used to enact change in the world, in myself,

time that could be used for better things than pointless insults

Monsters and humans?

Identity and purpose?

Who cares?

I am sick of thinking.

I am sick of being.

And yet I put meaning into writing

I live off writing and spite alone.

....and I am allergic to jackfruit.

(The train of thought ends there. "No progress has been made again," I write. "Although new topics were breached, again, we have left off where we started." The | still flashes but there is no more time to complete what's been left until I wake up again.

The sun is pretty but my eyes feel heavy. Yes, the eyes do burn.)


End file.
